Skyhook (17 page)

“Oh, God, Gracie! Oh, God!”

“What?”

“It’s a Notice of Emergency Revocation.””

“Oh, no!”

“Yes. Dammit, Gracie, this will kill Dad.”

“You’re sure it says revocation’?”

“I’m sure. They’re accusing him of… wait… this is ridiculous … flying while intoxicated, reckless operation of an aircraft, and violation of visual flight rules. What do we do?”

“You have a fax machine there, don’t you?”

“Yes. Fax it to you?”

“And to the lawyer in D.C.” Gracie relayed both numbers.

“What do I tell Dad?”

She could hear Gracie sigh on the other end, and the lack of a rapid comeback accelerated her fears. April, you realize this also grounds him at United?”

“Yes.”

“So … I don’t know what to tell you, except that now the fight begins.”

“Gracie, can I get you on a speakerphone to help me tell him?”

“Better that we pull the lawyer in on this as well. His name is Ted Greene. Give me a few minutes and I’ll call you back to arrange it. Keep that damn thing hidden from your dad until then.”

“I’ll try. I was going back to Vancouver this afternoon, but now …”

“He’s going to need you there, April, for a bit at least. This is going to be a heavy blow.”

“I know.”

“Stay put. I’ll call you back.”

“He’s never had an FAA violation in his whole career. Did you know that?”

“April, it’s going to be okay.”

The letter was becoming opaque through her tears as she nodded, then remembered to speak. “Okay.”

The phone rang within ten minutes with Gracie on the other end.

“Mr. Greene? Are you there?”

“Yes,” a male voice announced in the electronic distance of his Washington office.

“All right. April? We’re on your cell phone with the speakerphone feature, right?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll hold while you go get the captain.”

April moved to her parents’ bedroom feeling like an executioner.

Rachel Rosen was already up and greeted her daughter from the alcove of their bathroom, but Arlie was still lying in bed.

“Dad?”

He looked grim, she noticed. “Hi, honey.”

“The postal service never comes at this hour, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Which means it was a registered letter, which means it’s from the FAA, which means it’s very bad news.”

April looked at the letter in her hands as she slid onto the side of the bed and nodded. “I’ve got Gracie and our aviation lawyer, a Mr. Greene, on the phone. They want to talk to you.”

“Let me see the letter,” Arlie said quietly as he lifted it from her hands and opened it, scanning the text before handing it back and nodding to the phone. His face was ashen, but his voice was steady.

“Okay, April. Put them on.”

OFFICES OF JRNSSEN RND PROZRN, SERTTLE, WHSHINGTON

Gracie O’Brien ended the conference call between Ted Greene and the Rosens and immediately redialed Greene’s Washington office.

“I need a straight assessment, Mr. Greene.”

There was a long sigh from D.C. “Well, to be blunt, we’ve got a hell of a mess here,”

Gracie felt her heart sink. On the conference call, Greene had said all the right and cautious things a good lawyer should say to a new client at the start of an unknown legal journey, but she’d expected a slightly more optimistic lawyer-to-lawyer statement.

“They’re gunning for him, Gracie. I mean, FAA tends to get that way, as we both know, when it gets to enforcement actions. But I couldn’t get even the most cursory cooperation in Captain Rosens case. It’s as if they’ve made an agency decision to go for broke and destroy him.”

“What can we do? I mean … Okay, that’s a dumb question for cocounsel to ask.”

“No, not really. The nexus of their righteous indignation is the theory that Captain Rosen simply flew the aircraft into the water, negligently. Everything else stems from that. But the drinking charge is very serious, and could be disastrous. Now, if the hospital did a blood test when Rosen was admitted, a zero blood-alcohol result would help.”

“You need me to call Anchorage?”

“One of my staff is already on it. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“I will. He wasn’t drinking.”

“The charge that he violated visual flight rules is hogwash, but it may be the most dangerous one of all, since they can create havoc by saying that he flew too far into instrument conditions without a clearance. I listened carefully to the recording of that hospital interview, and Captain Rosen, unfortunately, left the door open a crack for them with the way he described the conditions.”

“But, he tried to turn around.”

“Not soon enough. They’ll say he spent too much time on the radio calling for an instrument clearance.”

Gracie was tapping a pencil against her blotter in a frantic beat. “Oh, damn, damn, damn. You say the reckless charge is the worst?”

“Their word and interpretation against his.”

“But what about the propeller?”

“That, unfortunately, is what I’m leading up to. We need to recover enough of that wreckage to at least show the prop blade is missing. That’s our best defense. Of course, they’ll claim it came off on impact with the water, but I seriously doubt that will sway a hearing examiner. We need that wreckage, regardless of what it costs to salvage it.”

She rubbed her head and sighed. “I’ll get to work on it.”

“Gracie, I know you’re a family friend. How long does Captain Rosen have till retirement? Is early retirement an option?”

“Not only no, but hell no. He’s only forty-nine. He’ll fight to his last penny, and even when they retire him someday, he’ll be flying privately. I fully expect to see him flying into his nineties.”

“First we have to get his license back.”

“And there is, I assume, no chance of getting this so-called emergency revocation reversed quickly?”

“None whatsoever.”

SEQUIM, WRSHINGTON

Answering the home phone on the first ring was an unconscious habit, and April pulled the receiver to her ear unprepared for the slightly familiar male voice on the other end.

“Mrs. Rosen?”

“Ms. Rosen. Who is this?”

“Walter Harrison of the FAA. I have a message for Captain Rosen.”

“You need to talk to his team of lawyers, Mr. Harrison. You won’t get away with this outrage, by the way. I’d plan an early retirement if I were you.”

There was a malevolent chuckle on the other end. “In denial, are we, Ms. Rosen? Well, you want to believe that dear old dad couldn’t be drinking, and I understand your misguided loyalty.

But I’ve found the proof, no pun intended.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He visited a liquor store in Anchorage just before the accident, which means the charges are valid and his days of imperiling passengers are over. Undoubtedly the empty bottles will be in the wreckage. A fifth of bourbon, two bottles of vodka—the alcoholic’s friend—a bottle of Jamaican rum, and a very fine cognac. All that booze was purchased an hour before departure from Lake Spenard, and he signed the credit card receipt himself.”

He paused, but April was too stunned to reply.

“I know you think I’m just a little worm, Ms. Rosen. But the truth is, your father’s a dangerous drunk.”

“You go to hell!” she snapped, slamming the phone back in the receiver and feeling her entire body quake. She lifted the receiver to call Gracie, then replaced it again, a cancerous doubt creeping into her mind. Why would he buy that much liquor?

Why would a recovering alcoholic buy any liquor? She felt the growing need to find him, talk to him, and reassure herself, but he was nowhere to be found in the house. A light showed through the window of the detached, barn-like garage, and she pushed through the back door to find him on a stool in his woodworking shed.

“Dad?”

Arlie Rosen looked around at her, trying to smile through an expression of utter despair. There was an object on the workbench in front of him, and April realized with a twinge of fear that it was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, blessedly unopened.

“Dad, what are you doing out here?”

He sighed, a long, ragged sigh, and tapped the workbench.

“Looking my old enemy in the eye, April.”

“Dad, you’re not thinking …”

“Of drinking?” he finished, chuckling at the rhyme. He shook his head and picked up the bottle with his left hand, turning it slowly. “No, honey. I’m just wondering why that little FAA bastard hates me so. Because I had a bout with the bottle ten years ago? Or was I right about his being a rejected airline applicant with a vendetta?”

“He called, Dad.”

“Who?”

“Harrison.” She related the conversation, watching her father’s expression harden.

“That isn’t true, Dad, is it? You … weren’t in any liquor store, were you?”

He looked away, nearly a minute passing before she heard an answer. “Yes, dammit.” He snapped his eyes back to her. “Your mother

is witness to this, April. The liquor was not for me. We entertained on the airplane often when we were moored someplace, and I was planning to see some friends in Sitka on arrival.”

“This doesn’t help us, Dad.”

“I wasn’t drinking!”

“It’s okay, Dad.”

“No, it’s not. Forget the stupid liquor charge, what matters is, my reputation’s just been assassinated, my plane is gone, I could have killed us, and even your trust has been shaken, and …”

His right hand flailed the air as he fought the emotion.

“It’s okay, Dad,” April prompted.

“April, I’m a senior airman. I should have turned around immediately. I should have climbed. I should have seen that fog bank, gotten a better weather briefing… something, goddammit!

I’m in command, and I do not have the luxury of making mistakes!”

“Dad, you’re human.”

“No!” he said, raising his index finger, his eyes flaring. “No, I can’t hide behind being human. I’m an airline captain. I’m required to be perfect, or at the very least to keep my own stupidity from … from …” Arlie hurled the unopened bottle of bourbon at the concrete wall of the shop where it shattered loudly as he finished the sentence. “… crashing my aircraft!”

She tried to move to him, but he was already off the stool and out the door, striding across the manicured lawn toward a grove of trees on a high embankment overlooking the strait.

April watched him go, utterly unsure what to do, her mind maliciously replaying teenage memories of finding empty bottles of vodka in strange parts of their house before he enrolled himself in the airline’s alcohol program. She had never smelled liquor on his breath back then. True alcoholics could be very difficult to detect.

And the Anchorage purchase had included vodka.

here. What’s that?” General MacAdams orbited the shadowy radar return on the screen with the red dot from his tiny laser pen.

“Not sure, sir,” a sergeant replied. “This is from one of our air defense sites.”

“Looks like a fast-moving target to me,” Mac added.

Sergeant Jacobs, an AWACS air-traffic control specialist normally charged with keeping fighters and tankers headed in the right direction, approached the screen, scratching his chin before turning back to the man operating the liquid crystal projector.

“Run it again, Jim.”

Once more the picture came to life, and once again the shadowy target appeared, disappeared, and reappeared on subsequent sweeps of the radar beam.

Jacobs turned to the general. “Well, sir, of seven tapes, that’s the only hint I see of an unidentified fast-mover where your guy descended below two thousand feet. All the tapes show the skin paint return of the jet until… here” He used his own laser pointer to highlight a spot considerably west and on the left margin of the

screen. “But this is the only tape I’ve seen that was getting hits on him while he was within a hundred feet of the water.”

“And we’re all in agreement that there’s no other conflicting traffic visible?”

Everyone in the room nodded except for Lieutenant Colonel Anderson. “Ah, General, there’s still the Coast Guard tape we haven’t seen.”

“Sir,” the sergeant interjected. “There is one other target on this tape that’s of interest. It’s intermittent and running north, where your jet is running east. We had him intermittently on the AWACS tapes, too. While our Gulfstream is coming in from the left side of the scope, this fellow’s coming in from the bottom … the south. He first appears down here, and the radar is picking up his transponder squawking twelve hundred, the visual flight code, and his altitude is coming through as two hundred feet. Now that’s, as I say, at the bottom of the screen—remember the top is oriented to north—and at this point it’s about twenty miles south of the estimated position of the Albatross crash site. I’m assuming this is the Albatross, right here where you see this smudge. That’s the faint radar return, and it’s northbound.”

“Could that be that ship we talked about?” Mac asked, then winced and corrected himself. “Of course not. Sorry. Dumb question. The tanker was southbound.”

“Yes, sir, and this northbound VFR hit is probably going at least a hundred knots, so it sure as heck isn’t a ship.”

“But, the two don’t intersect, do they?” Mac asked with some alarm. “The track of our Gulfstream coming in from the left crosses or will eventually cross the northbound track of the target you believe is the Albatross, but will they be there at the same time?” Mac was sitting forward now, his concern rising until the sergeant shook his head.

“No, sir. I projected their respective tracks, and with the timeline information we have on the Gulfstream from the flight data recorder, they come close, but miss by several miles.”

“Good.”

“Provided, sir, that the Albatross doesn’t change his heading.”

“But, you’d see a change, right?”

Jacobs was shaking his head no. “Well, he probably didn’t change course, but we only have a good track on him until about ten miles south of the estimated crash site, and then he apparently dropped too low, or something happened to his transponder, because we have no hits on him after that. That means we can only project his subsequent flight path, but when I do, it misses your Gulfstream by miles.”